


stick shift

by notwest



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Humanstuck, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Prostate Milking, Self-Discovery, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-20 20:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18132053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/pseuds/notwest
Summary: In which Karkat Vantas' roommate, Dave "straight as a line of coke" Strider, discovers the joys of prostate stimulation. Again.And again.And again.





	1. Karkat: Be the voyeur.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saccharomyces_cerevisibae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saccharomyces_cerevisibae/gifts).



> welcome to my land of debauchery 
> 
> this fic is based on a post from the r/sex subreddit that I highly recommend reading for ultimate lolz:  
> [I [23m] just discovered prostate stimulation... and I prefer it to sex with my GF. Like, by a lot. Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/sex/comments/17c8oa/i_23m_just_discovered_prostate_stimulation_and_i/)

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you would really, _really_ like it if Dave Strider could stop shoving his fingers up his ass.

At first you were determined to believe it was something else. But some sounds are impossible to mistake, and one of those sounds is apparently the sound of your roommate, your _friend_ , furiously masturbating approximately six feet above your head.

Almost every night for a month now, you've found yourself lying awake at some late hour, rock hard and sweating under your blankets as you're treated to the intimate, wet squelching sounds of Dave relentlessly fingering himself.

You can give him some credit, he _is_ very discreet about it. So discreet that you're fairly sure he's been masturbating in the more traditional sense above your head for the entire two years you've been roommates. Except that in the past month it seems that he's learned about the wonder that is the prostate gland, and that's thrown a wrench into his entire stealth technique.

If he were lucky enough to have any other roommate, Dave's forays into the land of ass play would probably have gone unnoticed. But of course, you wouldn’t be Karkat Vantas if you weren't here, inflicting the punishment of your company on Dave's life like a needy, pining plague. If you didn't happen to be so particularly attuned to Dave's every movement due to your all consuming, ill advised crush.

See, Dave Strider is straight. Self proclaimed "straight as a line of coke", and completely not into you. This is an empirical fact. But some nights your mind starts to wander. As time ticks on, slow tendrils of thought extend from your subconscious and curl around memories of _that night,_ stroking them like old friends and trying to glean new meaning from the events that took place.

It was around six months ago, at the start of junior year when you and Dave found yourselves at a party of a mutual acquaintance. Not really knowing anyone, you both had stuck together as you wandered around aimlessly, and as is college tradition, drank to excess.

Somewhere between your tenth beer and sixth shot of tequila the night became admittedly blurry, but there are certain things that you remember perfectly. Like how you ended up pressed between Dave's hot body and a bathroom door, with your mouths fused together and both sets of hands wandering frantically. How you had run back to your shared dorm holding hands and giggling, only for both of you to pass out on your bed before getting any further than another few kisses.

You remember the panicked look in his eyes that crushed your heart completely the next morning when he asked if you remembered whether anything happened between you. He said he blacked out, and that's when you panicked and told him you didn't remember anything either.

There was no point in dragging your feelings out into the open to have them prodded and played with, and ultimately rejected. Sure, Dave had fooled around with you while drunk, and maybe that meant he needed to do some self reflection on exactly how straight he was, but it didn't translate into Karkat-specific interest when it came to a sober Dave.

You really should have applied for a new roommate that day. But after a couple hours of awkwardness, Dave was back to acting normal around you. Once he'd determined he didn't engage in any offending "gaytivities", he no longer seemed bothered by his missing memories, so you figured you could get over it too.

You were wrong.

And now you've been spending almost every night laying underneath him, your hands clutching the sheets on either side of you like someone's trying to pull them from under your body while mirroring his uneven breathing. It's torture, in the most exquisite, challenging sense of the word. Because there are things about Dave you know with certainty. Things like the taste of his lips, the firm curve of his ass, the unimaginable softness of his cornsilk blond hair. The feeling of his dick—hard, and pressed wantonly against your own.

These are the thoughts that flitter uninvited around your brain at the very best of times. And during the worst of times, like now, when you're straining your ears to hear the small breathy sounds above you that Dave can't manage to keep in, these are the thoughts that consume you.

The worst part is, night after night, you can't move. You can't shift around, you can't get up, and you definitely can't touch yourself, even as your dick _aches_ and throbs uncontrollably with the desperate arousal that courses like a river of lava through your veins, never failing to reach the same level of intensity you felt the very first time you heard him.

You won't under any circumstances risk letting Dave know you can hear him, because no matter how much you think of it as torture, no matter how hard you glare at the slivers of his mattress you can see through the wooden slats above you, the truth is that you don't want this to end.

You're a masochist. This is the only thing that can explain your brain-dead choice to stay around Dave day after day, why you catch your eyes glued to his body everytime you're not actively trying to avoid looking. It's why you find yourself leaning into his hugs for just a second too long, just to catch a hint of his scent like a desperate fool. This is why you scowl every time you see his arm flung around some floozy from your classes, why you feel a hollow, shameful sadness anytime you realize he spent the night somewhere besides your dorm.

You have no doubt that you would have continued on this path, subjecting yourself to Dave's most intimate moments while simultaneously pushing down your feelings for him in favor of a simple friendship, all the way through graduation. Except. A little while after Dave begins his… new nightly routine, you come to the conclusion that he is definitely acting different around you. You're starting to see less and less of him, and when you do happen to be together in your dorm, he's jumpy and avoidant.

Logic dictates that Dave's newfound skittishness and his late night sessions are not coincidental. But other than an embarrassing internet search history and a suspicious purchase of a new set of drumsticks, you don't know what could be causing him so much stress.

Unless, does he know that you know? Is this what you would do if you were Dave and you knew that you knew? When you think about it, you're pretty sure that you would just drop out of all your classes and abscond on the spot.

You spend exactly one day agonizing over this before deciding that you need some space from Dave so you don't go batshit fucking crazy. President's Day is Monday, and you make plans to visit your parents upstate for the long weekend. You do your homework, send Dave a text letting him know you'll be out of town, and pack your bags.

Which brings you here. You return to City College a day early because as usual, you completely forgot to factor how unbearable your parents are into your Dave-free weekend plans. You've been in the building for less than two minutes and you're already irritated, searching your bag for the room key as you balance the three boxes of granola bars your dad forced you to bring back precariously on your hip.

When you finally ease open the door, your jaw drops.

The room is dimly lit by the setting sun, but there's no mistaking the sight of Dave Strider on all fours, buck ass naked and fucking himself enthusiastically on a hot pink dildo that's suction cupped to the wall.

It's like the world slows down as your brain works to absorb every detail it can about the scene before you. It can't be more than a minute but feels like a century.

Dave's on the bed, the side of his face smashed into the blankets with his eyes squeezed shut and his arms bracing himself on either side of his head. Your eyes greedily follow the arch of his spine up up to where you can see the the dildo, emerging shiny with lube and then disappearing into his ass every time he pushes back against the wall with a throaty groan.

Sirens are going off with a deafening blare in your head. Leave, leave, you can still _leave,_ he hasn't seen you yet and you can spare both of you the utter embarrassment if you can just quietly close the door and let him keep doing what he's doing.

There's only one thing that stops you. There's one immutable detail that keeps your hand frozen in a death grip on the key you still have in the doorknob with your mouth gaping, and that's the fact that he's not just on any bed. Those aren't his gunpowder gray sheets he's clutching and moaning into as he rocks back and forth in obvious ecstasy, _they're yours._

You feel helpless as you stand in the doorway with your feet frozen to the floor and watch Dave fuck himself on your bed. Your skin feels like it's on fire. Every part of you feels prickling and electric, yet numb at the same time. If listening to Dave finger himself every night was torture, then this is a million pins and needles stuck into your every pore, and pressing deeper by the second.

Three things happen next, in very quick succession:

You watch, mesmerized as the lean line of Dave's body jerks and spasms. "Fuck–oh fuck, _Karkat,_ " tumbles from his lips in a broken whine, as he undoubtedly comes onto your sheets.

You gasp and drop the boxes of granola.

Dave's head snaps up, his eyes and mouth widening in abject horror as he sees you, and in a flail of limbs and bedding, he falls forward onto the floor.

You're stuck there for a moment longer with your eyes still trained on the same spot, except all that's left to look at is that pink glittery dildo, which is steadfastly clinging to the wall, in an almost comical contrast with the stark white of the dorm's paint.

"Fuck," you hear Dave curse mournfully, and for a second he's just a bundle of sheets until you see his head emerge and his ruby eyes slowly find yours, his expression unreadable.

He just sits there, waiting, and you know the next move is up to you. You can feel the gears of your stalled muscles spur into movement. You don't bother with the boxes. You turn away from Dave Strider and your dorm room, and you _run._


	2. Dave: Buy drumsticks.

Your name is Dave Strider and someone is about to stick their fingers up your ass. Not in a sexy way though. Not that there can even really be a sexy way, since hey, that's never exactly been your lane. 

You're at the campus doctor's office, and for some reason they've decided that you need a prostate exam. Somewhere in the back of your mind you think,  _ hey, isn't this about twenty years too early?  _ but the truth is that you don't know enough about prostate health to really debate the issue, so you stay silent. 

A few minutes later, two gloved fingers are pressing against your asshole. It's weird at first, because the only thing that's ever penetrated your ass at this point is your own shit, and as orgasmic as early morning shits are, the feeling of something going in a place things only ever come out of is not a good approximation. 

Except. After three seconds, the feeling of their fingers pressing inside you goes from feeling weird and foreign to feeling  _ incredible.  _

Then two things happen, almost instantaneously:

One, you get hard. Like, instantly, unbelievably rock hard. Your body breaks records. You've never gotten this hard, this fast in your  _ life. _ It's like you just discovered a secret 'inflate' switch stuck up your asshole. 

The second thing that happens is that a groan explodes out of your mouth, involuntary and loud.

Your face heats up. Oh fuck. Your mind immediately leaps to damage control. Okay, so it will probably be easy to hide the boner, it's not like you haven't had enough experience with that in your lifetime. Inopportune boners are just a way of life for a teenage kid, and hiding them pretty much becomes second nature.

As for the 'spank me harder, papa' groan, you figure you can play it off as discomfort. 'Yeah, sorry about that doc, I wasn't expecting it to be so uncomfortable,' you would say. And then he would assure you it's quite alright, before giving you a lollipop and sending you on your way.

And thus, your plan is flawless. It's so good that you're already mentally congratulating yourself on getting out of this situation while almost effortlessly preserving the trademark Strider cool. But then  you hear the laughter. The motherfucker is giggling up a storm back there, and to top it off, their fingers are still wiggling around in your ass. 

You practically wish the doctor would find a lump up there, so that they would have to stop laughing and start feeling sorry for you instead, because everyone knows that you can't make fun of someone who's about to bite it from prostate cancer. 

Finally they pull out and you don't move, mostly due to the fact that you're being crushed under the weight of your own personal mountain of shame. And you can still hear the fucking laughter in their voice when the doctor says, "Well, everything looks good here."

You hear the snap of plastic gloves and a tap running, and you know you'll have leave this office eventually. It takes you two millennia to stand up, and even then you stare at the floor while you hike your pants back up your ass. 

"Thanks," you mumble. "And sorry, about…" About what? About turning this routine clinical procedure into your own personal taping of  _ Twink Boy Gets Tight Ass Fingered? _

"Don't worry, Dave. It's completely normal," the doctor tells you.

That's when you finally look up at their face, and the incredibly amused expression you find there tells you that the last five minutes in this office have been anything  _ but _ normal. 

Congratulations Mr. Strider, you've just achieved freak status. They'll probably be telling all their doctor friends about you for years to come. 

You scurry back to your dorm and turn to the internet, thanking the heavens that at least Karkat is nowhere to be seen.

Karkat, also known as your roommate of two and a half years, who is very fucking ironically, a loud and unapologetically gay guy himself. No joke, like he's the president of the LGBTQ+ club on campus, and he's always out marching for some gay cause, or wearing t-shirts that say shit like 'I suck cocks in hell'. 

But will you ever tell him about this problem? Hell no. You guys have already sort of been through a weird patch in your relationship, and you think maybe bringing up the revelation that you are craving foreign objects up your asshole might spark some kind of tension.  

Said weird patch being that time you and Karkat went to John's party and where a case could be made that you had too much to drink, as evidenced by the fact that four hours later, you were grinding your dick against him in a dirty bathroom while also devouring his face. 

The problem is, unlike Karkat, you're not into guys. Or at least, you thought you weren't at the time? You were so freaked that you actually pretended you couldn't remember what happened. Which worked out for the best, since it turned out that he didn't remember either. And judging by his palpable anxiety at the fact that you two might have hooked up after the party, you came to the conclusion that he'd never want you like that sober anyway. Best to save your little heart.

But you do remember what happened. In fact, you regularly remember during late nights in bed, when you stroke yourself to the memory of his heated gaze on you and the feeling of his lips on yours, hot and hungry. 

Which brings you back to the internet, where you find lots of valuable information about the wonders of prostate gland and how to best stimulate it. After taking copious mental notes, you set out to begin your journey of assploration. 

After reading a particularly inspiring thread on Reddit you find yourself at the store buying a pair of drumsticks, getting more and more anxious as the line creeps toward the register. 

Is this suspicious? You have a paranoid feeling that everyone knows you're a fraud, that you're planning to take these drumsticks home and shove then right up your ass. 

"Yeah, mine broke," you end up telling the cashier with a nervous laugh. "I just can't go a day without m' sticks. I live to drum. Yep, it's a drummer's life for me. My parents said I came out of the womb with drumsticks in my hands, that's just the kind of guy I am, you know?"

The cashier just looks at you blankly and asks if you want a bag. 

Once you're safely back in your dorm you hide the drumsticks under your pillow, like gifts for the prostate fairy. And then you wait an agonizing two days, until Friday, which the day you know Karkat always holds a club event after class, to unleash your new weapons of mass perversion. 

Almost immediately after the door closes you take a nice, long shower to clean yourself up, light candles, hydrate. You strip down and then hole up in your bunk with the drumsticks and a bottle of lube. It's showtime. 

Lying back with your legs up against the wall, you slick the ball end of the drumstick with lube and press it against your asshole. Just like at the doctor's office, as soon as it breaches the ring of muscle, you immediately get hard. 

The feeling is incredible. You apply more lube before sliding the drumstick further in and pulling back. You do it again, faster, until you're fully fucking yourself with it, then switch hands so you can curl slick fingers around your cock. 

Something else happens. You feel this amazing ball of release, and then a clear fluid starts leaking from your dick that kind of looks like precome, except it doesn’t stop dripping down. And the more that comes out, the better it feels. 

You turn your head to groan into the sheets, you can’t believe that you’ve literally never felt anything like this before. How is this possible? This is like someone going their entire life without ever tasting macaroni and cheese.

An all consuming pressure is reverberating through your entire body. You feel hot from head to toe, all the muscles in your body tensing tighter and tighter as you steadily work yourself toward oblivion. 

You even stop touching your dick at some point, you're so overcome by the sensations you’re creating with this stick your ass. It just lays there on your stomach—insanely hard, purple tipped and kind of diseased looking, and still leaking copiously.

At this point you wouldn't stop fucking your ass for anything. You need to finish this; it feels like you're hurtling toward something dangerous, something that will break you. You would think you were dying, if it didn’t feel so fucking  _ good. _ And then, out of nowhere you seize, your vision exploding with white. Stars pop and fizz before your eyes as you come harder than you ever have in your life. You fall to your side, still jerking the drumstick inside you, while your body shakes on the bed like rag doll in a storm as wave after wave of electric pleasure courses through you and you  _ scream. _

It’s the best orgasm you've ever had, by miles. You scream so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if police showed up at the door asking who was maimed. You scream like you’re ripping a phonebook in half, you scream like you’re deadlifting the fucking iceberg that sank the Titanic. 

_ Holy shit. _

You give a repeat performance later that day. And again the next. Basically any time you find yourself alone in your dorm, it's pretty much guaranteed that a drumstick has just been, is currently, or is about to go up your ass. 

A few days later, you realize if you angle yourself right, you can get off on just your fingers. You thank god for your freakishly long arms and thin fingers, perfect for nonstop diddling that magic jizz button inside you.

You discover quickly that layman's masturbation doesn't work for you anymore. Not when you know what you  _ could _ be feeling. Not even regular sex comes close to the writhing, full body orgasms you've been experiencing. Trying to get off with only your dick now feels like touring Epcot's world showcase when you're used to traveling the world in a private jet. 

You've ascended to a higher plane of existence, and now you're addicted. You become suddenly obsessive about washing your sheets and towels, and keeping your room clean. You've mapped out Karkat's schedule in your mind to the second. You set up a subscribe and save on Amazon for your favorite lube.

You've never hesitated to masturbate in your bed over the years, even with Karkat in the room. You learned to keep quiet out of necessity from a young age, having always shared a room with your bro. Still, you practice being stealthy, so that you can even finger yourself at night while Karkat sleeps directly below you. 

Once you feel confident enough, you come gently into that good night, and when morning comes and Karkat seems none the wiser, you add it to your pervy repertoire. 

The next thing you discover is that you can have multiple dry orgasms, one after the other. This leads to you spend a solid three hours in bed one day, coming repeatedly, until you're a drooling, thoughtless puddle of Dave. It's the gift that keeps on giving. 

There's still a void in your life, though. 

In the endless ascent of your own, relentlessly horny version of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, the next thing you want is simple. You want be fucked by someone. You need it. It's like your body was  _ made _ to be fucked. In fact, once you start thinking about it, you can’t stop. The thoughts pervade your every waking moment, until even sitting in lectures becomes fantasizing how good it would feel to get your ass fucking reamed by someone for so long that your toes curl and fall off and you lose your voice from the sheer force of your screams. 

But you're not gay. You're not! Sure, you won’t deny that thinking about being filled by a huge, throbbing cock makes your guts squirm eagerly. But why can't you just be someone who wants to get their ass utterly destroyed without having to slap a giant, mega gay label on it? 

Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. After all, you  _ are _ friends with Karkat. It’s just that aside from the occasional aesthetic appreciation session, you just don't find dudes particularly attractive. Not that you find girls particularly attractive, either. 

What you are attracted to is people.

Or specifically, one person. 

You're not sure when it starts, but after a while, the myriad of fantasies you’ve been having that star you, being taken from behind by some tall, dark stranger have morphed into something more defined. Someone more familiar. 

Once you latch onto Karkat as the object of your unbridled lust, you can't go back. Things start to get a little awkward between you two and it's completely your fault. You start avoiding him bigtime. And when you do find yourselves together, you do everything you can to avoid talking to him for too long or looking him in the eyes, like he can somehow read your thoughts, like he knows you've been thinking nonstop about him breaking you open like a battering ram. 

The worst part is that he obviously suspects something is up. Which makes you act even more insane. Maybe it will just go on like this forever until you're flattened into dust, squeezed to death under the weight of your own anxiety. 

You remind yourself daily that he wouldn't be interested in you. Sure, he's gay and sure, he's stacked like a Mack truck. Not to mention how you both got your hardcore grind way the hell on during that one party, except he doesn't even remember it. So where does that leave you now? Was he actually into you then, or were you just the nearest warm body? 

Maybe if you hadn't panicked and actually told him what happened that night, you would be in a completely different position right now. Like, literally.

You try not to think about it, while shamefully still making him the star of your nightly asscapades. And then, since you've resigned yourself to the fact that you and Karkat will probably not be boning anytime soon, you go online and a buy the next best thing. A hot pink, sparkly dildo. 

You don't even have to wait long for a chance to try it out. When Karkat texts you to let you know he's going out of town for the weekend, it's like all your  _ make Karkat busy _ dances, chants and prayers have been answered. 

Unfortunately, you are assblocked by real life classes and real responsibilities until late Sunday afternoon, but as soon as you're free you hustle back to your den of filth and rip open the nondescript box that you stashed in the closet to reveal your new toy. You could cry, it's beautiful. 

You're about get set up on your bed, and contemplating the slight probability that you might hump your way into completely knocking over the entire bunk, when an idea comes to you.

Maybe you should do this on Karkat's bed. For safety reasons, obviously. Why risk damaging your pristine, youthful body or the cheap, IKEA bed frame? And if you get to be ensconced in Karkat's smell while you imagine him fucking you until your legs give out, that's just an unintended bonus. 

Thinking it through, you'll have plenty of time to throw his sheets in the washer before he gets back, and if he's suspicious, you can just say that you spilled Chick-Fil-A sauce all over them and you're just being an amazing roommate. 

It is the perfect crime.

Once you set up the dildo, you take your sweet time leisurely working yourself open, until even the distant city sounds of traffic and construction have faded into a dull backdrop. 

You don't put any porn on. You haven't needed any in a long time. It's just you and him. Karkat, with that small smile he sometimes wears when he thinks no one is looking. Karkat, who has hands softer than you would have ever guessed, and dark, bushy eyebrows so tensely set that you could strike a match on them. Karkat, who is so unmistakably, unapologetically himself, who wears his heart on his sleeve and somehow makes you respect him all the more for it. 

Shit. Your fingers still in the middle of a long, wistful sigh. This isn't just horniness, it it. 

You, Dave Strider, have genuine, real boy feelings for Karkat Vantas. 

You wake up an hour and a half later, having fallen asleep in Karkat's bed. The sun has started to set, bathing the room in an amber glow. You're also wicked hard again, and it doesn't take you very long to pick back up where you left off.

You nose your way into Karkat's sheets the moment the toy breaches you and nearly cry at how good it feels, stretching you just right as the heady scent of him yanks memories  _ that night _ to the forefront of your brain. 

You imagine Karkat behind you, his hands gripping your hips as you bounce your ass desperately against his cock. 

You let go, fucking yourself until you become a mindless, pleasure seeking vessel. You rock back and forth to hit that sweet spot again and again, whining with delight, until you come with fireworks behind your eyelids. Your body jerks uncontrollably, grinding you further back onto the dildo and triggering a second, shivering orgasm immediately afterward. 

The only thing you can do is hold on as the Karkat in your imagination drives into you and your body is wracked with the overwhelming sensation. It's so fucking lame but you indulge yourself, moaning his name as you come for the third time. 

A sharp gasp and subsequent crash cause you to jerk your head up reflexively. The half of your brain that's not thoughtless slime wonders if maybe you didn't lock the door, or if maybe you forgot that you ordered a pizza to your room. Then you see him.  

Oh no, no, no. 

_ Karkat is here.  _ Not the one in your imagination. The very real Karkat, your current roommate, is standing in the doorway with his hand still on the knob, and several boxes on the floor at his feet. 

You barely take in his bright crimson face and dumbfounded expression before you're hurtling forward and slamming down hard on the wood flooring. Sadly, Karkat's sheets do absolutely nothing to break your fall.

To review, Karkat just walked in on you stuffing a pink dildo up your ass while rubbing your face all over his bed like an animal. As far as horrible roommates go, this one is probably for the books. 

You blood turns to ice when you remember you actually said his name out loud. How long was he standing there? Did he hear you? 

You curse and pick yourself up, wincing. When you find Karkat's eyes, he's still staring at you, slack jawed. 

Before you can wrap your head around something reasonable to say—like there even  _ is _ something reasonable to say—he spins around and takes off down the hall. 

Fuck.

You're scrambling to your feet before you realize it. Clothes. You need clothes. You also snatch the dildo off the wall, tossing it up on your bunk. The sheets will have to wait.

As far as where Karkat is headed, you don't even have to think about it. You grab your shades and make a run for the campus library.


	3. Karkat: Abscond.

What just happened?  
  
You sprint down the hallway, your bag swinging wildly from your arms. You stop only once you reach the next wing, to can catch your breath and adjust the hardness in your pants.  
  
And then you walk, letting your feet carry you away from the dorms and along the familiar route to the campus library. When you're finally sprawled out on your favorite beanbag in the young adult section, you close your eyes and let yourself go back.  
  
That was… The hottest thing you've ever seen. Your mind easily conjures up the memory of Dave’s body spasming on your bed, the quick, rhythmic thrusts of his ass against the dildo, his moans and sighs, the way he _said your fucking name._  
  
Dave Strider is going to be your death.  
  
And you ran away. Right. You found your friend, who you've been desperately nursing a crush on for months now, getting off on your bed with your name on his lips, and you fucking. Ran. Away.  
  
If you weren't such a miserable fuck up, you would still be in that room with him right now. You would have walked in that room, pulled Dave up to his feet and kissed him, right on the surprised oval of his lips. Then you would have pushed him back on the bed, and he'd be so ready, slick and open just for you. Then you would have slipped inside him and pounded Dave into your mattress until he was nothing but a whining, writhing mess beneath you.  
  
Now, back in reality, Dave probably thinks you never want to see him again.  
  
You artfully place the YA book you picked up over your crotch, to disguise what is probably the hundredth erection you've achieved because of Dave Strider.  
  
What the fuck! You've spent the entirety of the semester trying to get over Dave, telling yourself again and again that he's not gay, and more importantly, that he's not into you.  
  
You're not sure of either thing anymore.  
  
You sit in the library until you calm down, or at least until your dick calms down, because there's nothing short of several shots of bleach that could even curb the anxiety eating away at your stomach.  
  
You don't know how you'll ever be able to face Dave again. Is is possible to somehow never go back to your dorm? You have a couple of friends you could crash with, and yeah, they probably wouldn't like the last minute intrusion on your part but they would just have to fucking deal with it, since there's literally not one person in your life that doesn't owe you a shitton of personal favors for all the times you've agreed to selflessly trudge your way through miles upon miles of their individual trails of bullshit.  
  
You're about to text John when your peripherals catch a very familiar head of blonde hair darting between two bookshelves in front of you. Your heart goes into hyperdrive.  
  
No way. He wouldn't.  
  
How would Dave even know you were here? Other than the fact that you're literally always here whenever you aren't in class or in your room, or the fact that you've told him multiple times this is where you go when you want to be alone… Okay, never mind.  
  
You wait, tensed in the beanbag chair, but you don't see or hear anything else. You determinedly open your book. This is ridiculous. If Dave is out there, why the fuck would he be sneaking through the stacks and hiding behind bookshelves like an underpaid actor in some shitty live reenactment of the goddamn Watergate burglary?  
  
You sit in the library for another hour, holding your book in front of your face without taking in a single word.  
  
Of course, you don't see any other signs of him. Because it was your imagination all along. Dave is probably in your room right now, unfazed, doing what he's always doing—drinking Mountain Dew and watching reruns of My Super Sweet 16. "Ironically."

Even so, you have to admit after a while that the library no longer feels like somewhere you want to stay. You decide to actually text John. You're pretty sure his roommate went away for the weekend like you did, so you can just take their bed. You don't have any spare clothes, but you are not above doing the walk of shame tomorrow morning if it means not encountering Dave tonight.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] started pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] \-- 

CG: HELLO, ASSHOLE. I NEED TO SLEEP IN YOUR ROOM TONIGHT. DON'T ASK WHY.  
GT: okay.  
GT: what is the reason you want to sleep in my room?  
CG: GOD DAMNIT. I SAID *DON'T* ASK WHY!  
GT: hehe. technically i didn't ask why!!  
GT: but seriously, why?  
CG: LOOK, I JUST FUCKING HAPPEN TO KNOW THAT YOU WILL HAVE A BED TO SPARE TONIGHT, AND I WOULD LIKE TO CASH IN ONE OF OUR SO CALLED "FRIENDSHIP TOKENS" TO MAKE USE OF SAID HORIZONTAL SLEEPING SURFACE.  
GT: wow karkat, you sure have a funny way of saying you miss hanging out with me.  
CG: YOU WISH, DICKSTILT. YOU WOULD HAVE TO PERMANENTLY MOVE TO THE NORTH POLE, AGE FIFTY PLUS YEARS AND DIE OF PNEUMONIA, BEFORE I WOULD *EVER* EVEN APPROACH HAVING ONE, SINGULAR, FLEETING THOUGHT THAT YOUR ABSENCE MIGHT BE NEGATIVELY IMPACTING MY LIFE.  
GT: hmm okay, have fun sleeping in your own bed tonight i guess!  
CG: JESUS ASSCHAFING CHRIST. OKAY.  
CG: PLEASE, JOHN. I'M SORRY. OPEN YOUR ARMS AND TAKE ME INTO THE WARM EMBRACE OF FRIENDSHIP. SQUISH MY FACE INTO THE BREASTS OF COMRADERY, WIPE THE RAW, WET EMOTION FROM MY EYES WITH THE HANDKERCHIEF OF COMPANIONSHIP.  
GT: jeeeeeeeez, okay! i was just messing with you, we can definitely bro out tonight.  
GT: oh, and you can tell dave to come over too, since he just messaged asking the same thing.  
GT: you're both going to have to fight over who gets to rub their smelly butt on my roommate's sheets though.  
GT: that, or you could share.  
GT: ~eyebrow wiggle~  
CG: TELL STRIDER YOURSELF. JUST BECAUSE WE'RE ROOMMATES AND MIGHT EVEN BE CONSIDERED FRIENDS BY THE ASS BACKWARDS STANDARDS OF CERTAIN SOCIAL CIRCLES THAT WE BOTH HAPPEN TO ORBIT, DOES NOT MAKE ME GUNG HO AND AT THE READY TO WILLFULLY DIVE INTO THE DEPTHLESS PIT OF HELL THAT IS VERBALLY ENGAGING WITH DAVE STRIDER.  
CG: FUCK, ACTUALLY. YOU KNOW WHAT, IT DOESN'T MATTER. NEVER MIND.  
CG: I JUST GOT AN EMAIL FROM MY PSYCH PROFESSOR WITH A NEW BULLSHIT ASSIGNMENT THAT'S DUE MONDAY.  
CG: IF DAVE'S GOING TO BE OUT OF THE ROOM, I MIGHT ACTUALLY GET SOME WORK DONE IN FUCKING PEACE.  
GT: hmmm.  
GT: okay, suit yourself! i just got the new mario kart game too. its gonna be soooooooo sweet.  
GT: and just so you know, me and dave are totally gonna talk mad smack about you all night.  
CG: WHY AM I NOT SURPRISED.  
CG: YOU TWO IDIOTS HAVE FUN.  
GT: talk to you later!  
CG: BYE.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] \--

You flop back on the beanbag chair. Okay, so Dave had clearly had the same idea you did… Which means he doesn't want to see you just as much as you don't want to see him. You never really stopped to consider, literally or figuratively, that Dave might be embarrassed about being caught in the impassioned throes of orgasm while thinking of you on some level, which on second thought, seems extremely fucking obvious.

In conclusion, you are an amazing psych major.

Lying to John was kind of a douchebag thing to do, but there's no way you can tell him what's really going on. You kind of suspect from some of his comments that he already knows about your feelings for Dave. That or despite all the progress you've made with him in the past two years, he still thinks that you are attracted to every single guy you encounter for the simple reason that you are gay. 

It doesn't help at all that your entire relationship started with him leaving an idiotic fucking comment on the intro post you made for the incoming freshman Facebook group, which then spawned a long, contentious comment thread between the two of you that consisted mostly of trading asinine insults back and forth. The exchange had ended with you awkwardly asking John out, only to be mercilessly and tactlessly shut down in front of a group of your peers. And then, as is only fitting for the eternal diaper dumpster fire more commonly known as your life, you would end up sharing a dorm hall with the very same asshole with the hideous buck toothed smile that was burned into your brain after glaring at the same profile picture all summer long.

After that you'd met Dave. Of course, everything about him immediately infuriated you—the way he got the highest grade in every class even though you'd never seen him so much as crack open a textbook, his complete lack of emoting about anything, the incessant stream of mumbling that poured from his mouth every minute of every day. You're not sure when things shifted into something more…  romantic, or if they maybe always were, the true nature of your feelings simmering, barely hidden, under a weak film of hatred.

You went from wanting to punch him in the face to just wanting him, from dreading sharing a room with him to craving his company. Dave's smile seeped into the sides of your mind while you sat in class, along with the memory of the warmth of his thigh against yours when you sat together on the futon watching shitty television together night after night.

You probably spend another half hour lost in thoughts about Dave before you begin the journey back to your room. It's already almost eight at night, so at the very least you can spend the night alone and strategize for when you do inevitably run into him. Even though you already know that there's really only one reasonable course of action. You're going to have to tell Dave the truth or risk the possibility that he'll never speak to you again.

But just because it's the reasonable thing to do doesn't mean that the very idea of it doesn't makes your stomach churn.  
  
You finally open the door to your room, and for the second time today, you freeze.  
  
Dave is lying on your shared futon, one foot dangling over the end, texting with his phone held above his head.

"What the fuck!"  
  
Dave starts at the sound of your voice, and promptly drops the phone on his face with a yelp.  
  
"What are you doing here?" you practically yell, as you try to get some control over your nerves, which are lighting up like a switchboard.  
  
You watch Dave pick himself up slowly. Even from the doorway you can see the faint redness in his cheeks, and how he's very pointedly not looking in your direction. "Why are _you_ here? I thought—"  
  
"Wait," you blurt, brain scrambling to put things together, "Were you in the library earlier?"  
  
He nods slowly. Okay, so you aren't crazy and Dave _had_ followed you.

"I was gonna—" He runs a hand through his hair, finally looking up at you. "Fuck, I don't even know what I was gonna do. Apologize, I guess? But instead I ended up calling in an order for a lifetime supply of KFC so I could chicken the fuck out, except god dammit John, I never should have listened to that overblown tool..."  
  
As he speaks, his voice gradually lowers in volume until it's just a murmur that could only be parsed by someone with augmented hearing, but you catch what's important.  
  
"John?" you repeat, already feeling your blood pressure rising angrily amidst the chaotic swirl of emotions raging your body.  
  
Dave huffs, and gathers his feet up around him on the futon. "He said you were staying with him tonight."  
  
Of fucking course he did. He'd obviously deduced you and that you and Dave were avoiding each other and thought this would be some kind of hilarious prank. You feel yourself winding up almost comically, like a spring loaded child's toy. But instead of your anger blowing you through the roof as is the norm, you surprise yourself by taking a very deep breath before stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind you.  
  
You wave your hand vaguely in Dave's direction without actually looking at him. "Okay well first of all, fuck John. But—" You falter. This is it. You remind yourself that you can't run away from this again, or you might risk losing Dave. You look back up at him. He's not wearing his shades, so you can clearly see the way his eyes are darting around skittishly, alternating between different corners of the room and the door. God, your body feels like it's entering fight or flight mode. "We're both here now, so do you want to talk about… earlier, or what."  
  
Dave makes a sound that can arguably be classified as a squeak, followed by an extended, "Uhhhhhh."  
  
Dave looks deeply uncomfortable, his mouth turned sharply down. "Or not," you quickly relent.  
  
It's silent for a few seconds. "I'm sorry," he mumbles.  
  
You walk further into the room, until you're about halfway between the door and the futon. This also places you a couple of steps from the bunk bed. You force yourself not to glance at it. You can't afford to think about Dave like that right now or you might lose your grip on the very frail strand of composure you're clinging to right now.  
  
And then, like they're locked in a shitty arm wrestling match, your inclination for cowardice starts to overtake your will to admit your feelings to Dave.

Logically, this should be so easy. It's not hard to connect the dots from, _You found Dave masturbating in your bed,_ to _Dave must like you to some extent._ And yet.  
  
"Look Dave, whatever you think I saw, what if we just agree right now that I didn't see anything and just move on with our lives?"  
  
_No,_ your brain is screaming at you. That's really not what you want, at all. You want to admit that you liked what you saw, you want to just go over and _take him_ already.  
  
Dave slowly lowers both feet back on the ground silently, the look in his eyes weirdly defiant.  
  
"And what if I wanted you to see it?"  
  
You can almost feel a vein throbbing in your temple as you consider it. Embarrassed heat floods your cheeks. "What? Are you saying you _planned_ this?" you actually yell. "Has this all been one big joke to you because I swear, Strider I did not think even _you_ were that fucking deranged!"

"No, no," Dave says quickly, his expression turning contrite. "It's just, fuck. Of course I didn't plan for you to catch me stuffing sausage on your bed, holy shit. I just don't—" He blows air from his mouth, while you grimace at his fucking phrasing. 

"I don't know what to say man," he goes on. He starts to pick at the fabric of the futon, fidgeting. He's nervous. "I think my ass said enough already. And before you say anything, I already know you don't like me that way." Dave closes his eyes and leans back, his face the picture of defeat.  
  
As Dave's face crumples, the need to comfort him hits you with staggering force. Everything else becomes background noise in the rush of helping someone you care about. You quickly close the rest of the distance to the futon and sit, putting one knee up so you can face Dave.  
  
"Strider," you start, and he turns his head to look at you. The intensity of making eye contact from this close is almost too much. You look at his lips instead, the palest pink and pressed thin, before realizing that it's a mistake. Your eyes travel further down, and it's the tension you see in the set of his jaw that spurs you on.    
  
Just say it. You've done so much shit in your life, things that were way harder than this. Coming out to your family, getting into real fights with ignorant, hate spewing fucks, breaking up with your douchebag of an ex, the dozens of pride rallies and events you've given speeches at on and off campus.  
  
Still, you feel like you're about to jump out of a fucking helicopter and fall straight into the blades of a second helicopter floating just below the first. "Like you? Jesus—what are we, in middle school? Of course I fucking like you. I more than like you, I just… I thought you didn't like guys," you finish lamely. You keep the second reason to yourself, the one where you had also convinced yourself that Dave found you repulsive.

Dave's staring at you with his mouth slightly open, and you watch as it slowly curves into a tiny smile. "Man," he says, and it comes out like a breath of relief, "I thought that too."  
  
Then you both sit there, looking at each other. Now what? You're distantly frustrated that this is so hard. It feels like you're holding two puzzle pieces that in all respects _should_ fit together, but when you try to press them into place, you realize they're from one of those cheap, shittily made puzzles where the pieces weren't cut exactly right.  
  
Dave finally breaks the silence. "Hey uh," he says softly, "Can I ask you a question?"  
  
"Yes, Dave, you can ask me a question," you say, rolling your eyes despite the flutter of nerves in your stomach.  
  
You notice Dave's hands are fidgeting in his lap, but he's still wearing that small smile when he asks, "Why did you run?"  
  
Oh. You weren't expecting that. "What else was I supposed to do? I walked in on—" You sputter, gesturing to your bed. "You know!"  
  
Dave just keeps his eyes on you, and you don't see anything in them but patience and what you would place as a sort of soft curiosity. Maybe that's what compels you to tell him the truth.  
  
You sigh, running a hand over your face. "I was overwhelmed. Seeing that—it was a lot to process, especially considering I've spent the last few months trying to get the fuck _over_ you, ever since—"

You cut yourself off when you realize what you were about to admit.

Of course, Dave catches it. Bastard. "Since what?" 

You can't lie anymore. You're coming clean, and that includes every truth you have, no matter how fucking pathetic.

"I remember that night," you admit, watching Dave's face nervously for a response.

"You lied?" he asks, voice small. You nod your head solemnly, and watch his face cycle through several emotions. It's Dave though, so your observations mostly consist of small facial twitches that have taken you two years to decode. You see surprise, then confusion, followed by guilt.

"I remember it too," he blurts.

Your heart stops in your chest then starts back up, double time. You weren't expecting that. "What? But…"

"Yeah. I kind of panicked about fooling around with a guy, so said I couldn’t remember anything.”

You bark a startled laugh. “Jesus Christ, we’re fucking morons.”

“Yeah,” Dave agrees. "I am sorry, though. I didn't mean to fuck with your head, I was just hella confused."

"It's okay," you tell him. "It doesn't help that I'm the hopeless romantic asshole who gets pathetically attached to anyone who gives him more than five minutes of the day."  
  
Dave grins. "That's what you get for staying up until three watching Hugh Grant movies every night."  
  
"Fuck you, he's a talented actor with an excellent filmography!" You swat at him, but you're laughing, and so is he. You feel light. It's over. You told Dave how you felt and he didn't reject you. Everything is fine.  
  
You're struck with his smile, it's fucking gorgeous, and his eyes are practically twinkling. You want to kiss him more than anything. Nerves sprout up and twist in your stomach at the thought, holding you back.  
  
"Okay, I get to ask you a question now," you say as a distraction for yourself, and because you actually do have a question. Dave nods, his expression sobering.  
  
You shake your head. "I can't believe I'm asking this but I guess I am asking this. How did you discover..." You trail off in embarrassment, and Dave raises an eyebrow at you. "That you enjoy anal penetration?" you finish in a rush.  
  
"Oh, how did I figure out how fucking awesome it feels to take it up the ass?" Dave clarifies bluntly, and you nod, feeling more heat flood your face.  
  
Dave gets up and reseats himself so that he's fully facing you.  
  
"Listen to me Karkat, you cannot laugh," he warns seriously.  
  
"...Okay."  
  
His face is a staunch picture of severity, and you wonder what the fuck he's about to admit to. Your eyes flick over to the drumsticks that are still fucking sitting out on his desk. What, did he somehow fall and sit on one just right?  
  
You zone back in to just catch Dave mumbling something unintelligible, his face turning red.  
  
"What?"  
  
He gets somehow redder. He says something again, just loud enough for you to make it out.  
  
"Prostate exam?" you repeat, incredulous.  
  
Wait a fucking minute. Dave's sexual awakening was the result of a goddamn prostate exam? You now understand why he asked you not to laugh, and dutifully, you try not to find his confession hilarious.

You fail spectacularly.  
  
You also fail at withholding a snort. Dave's eyebrows narrow as he makes an indignant noise.  
  
"What the fuck," he whines. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"  
  
"I'm not laughing," you say through the enormous grin you can't stop yourself from making.  
  
Dave's face turns into a full on pout, and the dam bursts. You laugh. Dave crosses his arms and his frown deepens, which only makes you laugh harder, until your face hurts, until you're howling, doubled over beside him and gasping for breath.  
  
When you gather enough composure to sit back up, you are face to face with a Dave who is scowling but completely red to the tips of his ears. You simply can't stop the absurd smile that's taken over your face.  
  
"I'm sorry," you choke out between giggles, wiping at your eyes. Dave just puts his face in his hands, and you finally stop laughing to panic for half a second because is he crying? But then he lifts his head back up and you can see the smile creeping across his face.  
  
You both sit and grin at each other like two delirious idiots in a staring contest, before Dave throws his head back and bursts into true laughter.  
  
And then you're laughing again, which only makes Dave laugh harder, which of course makes you laugh harder, and you continue like that for a while, setting eachother off like a closed feedback loop.  
  
Eventually your shared laughter dies down, until you're both just looking at eachother again. Dave is smiling shyly, his face still slightly pink, and cloying affection hits you like a tide. You can't help yourself, you lean in and kiss him.  
  
Dave reacts immediately, flinging his arms around your neck and almost jumping into your lap. He kisses you back fiercely, breathing small, contented sighs as your hands find the dip of his waist, the small of his back, comb through the short hairs at the base of his neck.  
  
As it turns out, memories of kissing Dave are nothing compared to the real thing, compared to the warmth of his chest against yours and the enthusiasm his tongue takes in exploring your mouth, to the way his hips roll forward, making you heavily aware of his dick, already half hard in his jeans. His attention shoots hot sparks up your spine and you shiver, feeling your own arousal start to take a front seat.  
  
Dave lifts his face from yours to take a breath and you zero in on his neck, licking and sucking the soft skin there to the sound of his labored breathing, and only moving on to the next spot when his skin blooms rose red under your lips.  
  
All of your senses are overloaded with Dave, it's both driving you completely crazy and and somehow not nearly enough. Unable to help yourself, you slide your hands under his shirt, eager to feel more of him, and his skin burns against your fingers. You nip at the skin just below his ear and he curses.  
  
“Fuck,” you groan, finally completely losing your battle for self control and letting your hips push up against his ass. You know he can feel how hard you are because he gasps, grinding back down on your lap and making you wheeze.  
  
“I’ve... never been with a guy before,” Dave admits softly into your ear.  
  
You kind of figured. You tug him down gently by his shoulders and kiss him again, melting at the drunken look in his eyes when you pull away.  
  
“I’ll take care of you,” you tell him, because it’s the truth, and god damnit, you feel his cock twitch against your stomach.  
  
Dave smiles, pushing at your chest, and you let yourself fall back on the futon. From there you both settle back into making out, while Dave slowly dry humps your dick until you think you're going to explode.  
  
You'd be happy to die like this though, at the mercy of Dave Strider as he rakes his hands through your hair and sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, biting down just enough to make you moan.  
  
"Hey, this has been super fucking good but listen, Karkat," he says, and then leans down to whisper in your ear. "I need you to _fuck me."_

Your brain fries. Fuck. You and Dave are clearly hurtling toward something you've wanted for a long, long time, but there's been a little anxious voice in the back of your brain that's getting louder and louder, telling you that you that you're way too fucking filth riddled to have sex right now.  
  
Tragically, for once in your life, you know it's right. You can feel the grime of the bus coating your face, the sweat that's crept into every crevice of your body. You want everything to be perfect for Dave. _You_ want to be perfect for Dave.  
  
You pull away from his lips, reluctantly. So fucking reluctantly.  
  
"Fuck, I want to," you admit weakly. "But if we're gonna do this, I want to do it right. And I need to get cleaned up first."  
  
"I don't—" Dave starts to say, but you cut him off.  
  
"I know, you don't care. But you're not the one who sat on a bus for six hours today, and it'll only be fifteen minutes. You can stay here and get ready."  
  
Dave pouts but slides off you. "Okay," he says petulantly, and you hate that it's so fucking cute.  
  
Once the door closes behind you, you practically run to the showers, cleaning yourself in record time while your body buzzes like a blender full of excitement and nerves.  
  
As you walk down the hallway back to your room you find that you can't quite keep the grin off your face.  
  
You can't wait to wreck Dave Strider. 


	4. Dave: Get wrecked.

You're waiting for Karkat to come back, on his bed, where he found you fucking yourself to the tune of his name less than two hours ago. And he's coming back here to fuck you with his baby powder fresh dick.

Fuck.

After experiencing what is probably one of the most embarrassing sequence of events in your life, you think that this is probably the best outcome that could have come out of it.  

Five minutes pass, and you're start to feel a little awkward. Maybe you should take off your clothes? While you're considering this, your eyes float over to the drumsticks sitting on your desk. Surely there's no harm in getting things started, right? You're just revving the engine. Greasing the axles. …You give up on a third metaphor, given the fact that you don't know a jack from shit about cars.

You quickly shove all your clothes to the floor, then grab a drumstick and the lube from your bunk.

You lay flat out on your back like you're a two page spread in a porn magazine. Or at least, what you imagine a two page spread would look like because you've had the internet since you were eleven years old.

Now that you _want_ it to happen, the idea of Karkat walking in on you fucking yourself makes you hot all over.

You're fully hard even before you're pressing the lubed up end of the drumstick to your asshole and working it so good that Missy Elliot would shed a tear. You set into your very familiar routine, made all the more intense by the uncontrollable thoughts you have of Karkat's eyes on you. They heat your body up like you're an ant under a magnifying glass in the sun.

The door opens but you don't look up yet, instead tipping your head back to let out a shuddered sigh as you continue to slide the drumstick in and out of you at a heavenly pace. Your cock is rock hard and leaking where it's pressed up against your stomach.

"Oh _fuck_ ," you hear Karkat rasp, and the door slams shut.

When you finally look up, he's standing over you, one hand clutched at the towel around his waist, staring at you with his mouth open like he hasn't eaten in two weeks and you're a Dave-sized slice of three cheese pizza.

"Dave," he says, and his voice is nearly a whine. "Fuck."

"Oh hey," you say breathlessly, still moving the drumstick inside of you, "Would you hold up a sec?"

Then you twist it upward with expert precision, groaning long and loud, while your toes curl into the bedsheets. You hear Karkat suck in a breath. Fuck, this is so hot. You don't even need to ham it up for his sake because, even after all the times you've done this, it still feels that fucking good.

Three more thrusts and you're orgasming with an indulgent cry, your eyes leaving Karkat's so they can take a quick, all expenses paid, round trip to the back to your skull.

When you look back at Karkat he's gaping at you, and you smile when you see the deluxe towel tent he's got pitched, rolling your hips into the air with another groan.

"Well you did say to get ready for you," you pant. "Now I'm all prepped for you to deflower me with your throbbing manhood."

Karkat's voice is a low growl. "Dave, when I'm done with you, you will _never_ use that fucking thing again."

He leans over and forces your knees open wide. Your stomach drops. His hand finds yours, still gripped tight around the drumstick, and pulls it away. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but you're cut off when Karkat drops down and kisses you roughly.

He smells so good. Like cloves and bulk Irish Spring and something distinctly _Karkat._ You groan into the kiss as you feel two fingers start circling your rim. You're already lifting your hips, prepared to beg for it, but there's no need. Karkat doesn't go slow. His fingers push in, slick and confident, and you jump when they find your prostate after just a few seconds, like Karkat's got a mental map of the inside of your own ass. He pulls his head back to look at you, still wiggling his fingers inside your ass. Then he smiles like he knows something you don't, and your back immediately leaves the mattress as he starts playing you like a fucking accordion.  

It's incredible. You can't do anything but stare wide into his eyes and breathe, clutching at the sheets as he massages you deeply and rhythmically with his fingers. Your dick is weeping nonstop and it's so _much._ Your body is pulled tight, and it feels like you're tipping over the edge again and again. It's barely a minute before you come, gasping and shaking, onto his fingers. And then again, and tears are forming at the corners of your eyes.

He's breaking you and you haven't even seen his dick yet.

"Please," you beg between pants, your mind drunk with sex and need. "I'm not even exaggerating when I say if you don't put your dick in me right now, I'm going to die."

Karkat pulls back to laugh, his eyes dark.

"Impatient fuck," he mutters, but he can't disguise the strain in his voice.

Karkat stands and the towel drops to the floor. When his fingers leave your ass you immediately replace them with your own, shamelessly desperate for simulation.

Your mouth falls open while your eyes roam his body, trying to see everything at once. Oh god. He's so hot your brain is boiling into a jelly. His cock is a little shorter than your dildo, but it's definitely a lot thicker, and you feel your ass clench around your fingers, pumping them a little faster as you anticipate what it'll feel like pounding into you.

Karkat wraps one hand around himself, stroking it a few times while watching you intently, and your body blazes.

You're two seconds from rolling over and presenting your ass to him like a bitch in heat when he bends down to reach under the bed, and when he straightens back up he's rolling on a condom and asking you for the lube. You reach over and pass him your modest, sixty-four ounce bottle of lube, pump included, and he gives you an incredulous look.

"Just so you know, I could have gotten a fifty-five gallon drum," you tell him, smiling faintly, and he blanches.

"Just… shut the fuck up," he says, and you open your mouth to exactly _not_ do that, but then he grabs you by both asscheeks and pulls you to the edge of the bed, shaking every thought from your brain except, _Oh yes, yes, oh fuck yes._

You stroke yourself a couple of times to the sight of Karkat slicking up his cock. Just when you're positive you can't wait another second, he descends, hitching one knee up on the bed and covering you with his body, one strong hand hooking under your knee to grip your asscheek, and the other fisting into your hair.

His gaze is searing. You whine and dig your fingers into his bicep as you feel the head of his dick slide against your skin.

His eyes clear for a second. "You're sure this is what you want?"

Huh? The hazy record of your mind scratches. "Dude, what the fuck, yes I want this, I want you, and I will sawzall the cock right off your body if you don't start using it on me right now."

Karkat pulls away slightly, his face twisting. "Jesus Christ, Dave. I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that."

"Okay, let me try again, please fuck me Karkat, please will you take my virginal booty on an express trip to pound town because— _mmphh_."

Karkat yanks your head back by your hair and kisses you hard, effectively cutting you off.

You wind your other hand into the hair on the back of his neck and then he shifts his body so that your dicks can slide against each other, making you gasp and shiver. Karkat continues to lick roughly into your mouth while he slowly grinds his cock against yours, until you're panting and legitimately mewling under him.

You're setting records, you're positive you've never been more aroused in your life. And then, fucking finally, Karkat looks down between your legs and positions himself against your asshole. You command your body to relax and let Karkat push into you. He goes slowly, both of you breathing hard. The hand in your hair has slid down to cup the side of your face. It's both disgustingly tender and exactly what you want.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," you breathe, when he's seated fully inside you. You can feel him, blood hot and pulsing, it's so different from what you've been able to do to yourself and so much _better_.

You groan when he starts to rock into you gently, and it's heaven, you're ascending, it is you. Your head drops back and close your eyes, letting the pure sensations run through your body.

"Are you good?" he asks after a few moments, and you pick your head up and nod slowly, too focused to form words.

He smiles a little, and then gets to work, settling into a smooth rhythm that keeps you floating in your fluffy cloud of pleasure. It feels amazing. Karkat is inside you and it's everything you dreamed it could be. The only thing you need now is for him to speed up until he's really railing you. You want to scream for him and contort like your body is possessed by a demon. It's like your life's purpose has been revealed in a clear onefold path before your eyes and all it says is 'get fucked by Karkat six hundred and sixty-six ways from Sunday.'

You think maybe you said some of that out loud, though hopefully not the demon part, because Karkat definitely changes pace now, working his hips a little faster, once again disturbing the delicate balance of your thoughts.

Karkat's little grunts and pants are steadily feeding the crackling fire in your core, and you wrap your arms around his neck, leaning up to kiss him like you want to extract his vocal chords with your tongue.

He chooses that moment to adjust his angle, watching your face carefully until he hits the spot that makes you scream, your eyes bulging while you squeeze him tightly.

"There," you wheeze, just in case he doesn't somehow know that he's punching your lucky ticket. "Karkat, fuck—right _there_ , shit!"

He grabs one of your ankles and places it over his shoulder. You squeak as he slides deeper into you and starts to move in quick, determined thrusts that rock your entire body, until you're both moaning way too loudly for the thin walls of your dorm.

You maybe lose track of reality a little, you might be mumbling, you might be drooling down onto the pillow as you stare hazily into Karkat's eyes while he straight up humps you hard, into the mattress.

At some point Karkat slows down and leans in closer, bowing over your body until his nose is almost touching yours and his breath is tickling at your lips. His eyes are the color of a stormy night, and when he talks, the timbre of his voice registers somewhere in your brain between life threatening and beyond sexy.

"Do you know… that I heard you?" he growls at the same time as he reaches between your bodies and wraps a mysteriously slick hand around your dick. The words ooze out of his mouth, slow and indulgent, spaced between each of your moans, the obscene sounds of his thighs slapping against your ass and his tight, punishing strokes of your cock.

Your mouth drops open further and he swoops down and bites your bottom lip, hard. You whimper, a jolt running through your body.

"Oh," is all you manage to say. You think. You're not actually sure if you even said a real word at all. It's so much, and everything is Karkat—the fiery look in his eyes, the sweet burn of him sliding deep inside you, the sharp pleasure of his hand on your dick, and the crackling heat of his body on yours.

"I heard you," he repeats. "Touching yourself. Fucking yourself. I heard you every night, you horny fuck. I laid right here, in my bed, and heard you breathing hard while you fingered yourself. Hour. After. Hour. I laid here, listening to you gasping and feeling the bedframe shake and I thought about doing this. I had daydreams of fucking your ass endlessly. Fucking you hard. Just. Like. This. Giving you everything your fingers couldn't."

By the time he finishes Karkat is breathing harshly and you're gaping at him like a fish out of water, while you simultaneously feel like you're drowning. You can't answer, you truly can't do anything but let the whimpering moans leak from your mouth while you shake like a wind blown leaf, staring wide eyed up at him as you feel yourself falling fall apart.

Karkat doesn't wait for you to respond. He straightens up, yanking you by the waist toward him. Your arms fly out to clutch the sheets on either side of you, your mouth opening wide in your best recreation of Munch's _The Scream_ as he redoubles his pace, and starts fucking you like he's trying to see his dick pop out of your eye socket.

He heard you. Karkat fucking heard you all those times you were lying in your bunk, touching yourself while thinking of him… _He heard you._

The thought shoots white hot through your body, and then you're coming, completely losing yourself to the ecstasy blooming through every part of you. It runs so deep that it's tugging stubbornly at your core, spinning you in circles until you can't tell what's up from down, unraveling you mercilessly until you think all Karkat will be left with are two handfuls of shredded ribbons of Dave.

You maybe blackout, then, in the face of the new, best orgasm of your life. You resurface in the present to hear an elongated wail coming out of your own mouth, to see an unholy amount of your own come painted across your chest, and to see Karkat staring down at you with something like wonder in his eyes. He thrusts into you a few more times, gripping at your thighs tightly before his eyes slip closed and you watch him reach orgasm, his hips stuttering against you and mouth jacking open to let loose a beautiful cry.

"Wow," you hear yourself whisper. When Karkat releases your legs, you close your eyes and go completely boneless, your body still tremoring with gentle aftershocks.

He asks you questions that you can answer with a nod or a shake. Yes you are okay, no you don't need anything, yes you want him to stay for a bit. Karkat settles on your chest, then, and you just breathe together for a while.

Eventually, you start to drift toward unconsciousness. In your halfway state, you distantly feel Karkat pull out of you, the weight of his body leaving yours.

Some time later, you feel him stroking your hair and wiping at your stomach with what you can only assume is a wet nap. Convenient.

You don't stir, letting him tend to you until you sense he's just hovering above you. You raise both of your arms in the air, clasping your hands together repeatedly like a small child.

Your eyes are still closed but you can imagine the small grin on his face before you feel the heat of his body over yours once more.

You help Karkat slot your legs together on the small bed in a way where you can pull him close enough to run your hands up and down his chest and sides, and he can pepper tiny kisses all along your cheekbones.

With effort, you open your eyes. He looks as soft and sleepy as you feel, plus one blindingly wide smile.

"I think you broke me with your cock," you announce in a whisper, and Karkat raises his eyebrows.

"I'm just saying for the record, there needs to be all kinds of disclaimers for that shit. Commercials that are like, have you asked your doctor about Karkat's dick? Side effects may include increased horniness, mind blowing orgasms, and in extreme cases, death."

Karkat rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are turning pink.

"Honestly, I've just failed enough at it by now to finally be somewhat decent."

"'Somewhat decent'? You just made me come so hard I think I saw the into fourth dimension," you say, while you pull at some of the curls in his hair and watch them bounce back.

Karkat snorts and looks away, but he's still blushing. You love it. Achievement medal unlocked, you can make Karkat blush about sex stuff now, fuck yes.

It's quiet for a moment, and then he looks back up at you.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he says softly. "You're incredible."

Your face heats, and you bury your face into his neck so he can't see you blush like an idiot this time. Karkat wraps an arm around you and you can feel the silent laughter rumbling through his chest.

You eventually fall asleep like that, succumbing to the needs of your own worn body, the late hour, and the steady rhythm of Karkat's breathing.

Not having class the next day is a blessing zipped straight down from the burly, loving hands of God. However, you wake up far earlier than you would ever have chosen to, with the mid-morning city soundscape filtering in through the open window, and a bright ray of sun beaming warm against your eyelids.

But neither of those things is what woke you up.

That honor goes entirely to Karkat, who you sit up to find wearing a towel around his waist while he stands in the open doorway of your room, screeching incomprehensibly.

You stretch slowly before you get up and walk over, wrapping yourself in Karkat's blanket and dragging it along with you like a cape. By the time you get to him, he's just staring at something on the door in silent horror. There's also what looks like a pile of paper scraps at his feet. Maybe it's some kind of Egbert prank to get payback for you and Karkat ditching out on him yesterday. John's pranks always send Karkat into fits of rage, and as someone who can generally see them coming from like, a fucking mile away, this is something that will forever remain a mystery to you.

"Dude, hey, can we go get brunch? Like, date style?" you ask, before turning to see what Karkat is looking at. "Oh okay, _holy shit_."

There are probably a dozen notes stuck to your door, and even more littered on the ground.

You look at a bright pink sticky note that catches your eye and snicker. " _Congrats on the sex._ "

Your grin widens as you scan the rest, which all share a similar sentiment.

" _Oh my God_ ," you read from another one. " _Finally!!!!!!_ "

From the one of the ones on the floor you can see a stick figure doodle of what is presumably you and Karkat, holding hands and standing on top of a messily colored rainbow. And now that you're really looking, there are also several condoms scattered among the pieces of paper. Score.

You take another one that's taped to the door and really start laughing. "Oh my fucking god, this is just a straight up receipt for ear plugs."

You turn to look at Karkat. He's glaring at you, and doing his best impression of a pissed off tea kettle. There's a blue note clenched in his fist. You pry it from his fingers to read out loud.

"You're welcome, losers! Love, GT."

Karkat snatches the note back and rips it in half. "That shit snorting jackass," he seethes.

Maybe you should be angry like Karkat, but all you can bring yourself to focus on is how cute he looks, all bed ruffled hair and hazel eyes and lips on full pout.

"I'm going to fillet every last person who lives on this floor if it's the last thing I do— _mmnph_."

You press him against the doorjam with your pelvis, and kiss him until he stops trying to protest against your lips. You do everyone a favor and keep your mouth closed, though, because you're not a goddamn monster.

"Dave," he warns, trying to push you away and flicking his eyes toward the hall. The door across from yours is closed, but the hallway does get regular enough traffic to cause concern.

However.

"I don't give a shit," you say, grabbing his hips with both hands. "Let them see."

Karkat's eyebrows slant together as he gives you that wondrous look again, before it shifts into a gorgeous smile and he slides both hands up either side of your neck.

"Fuck it all, let's go get brunch," he says. You open your mouth, but Karkat cuts you off. "Yes, idiot, _date style._ " You do a quick fist pump, and then he kisses you, and the part of your brain that doesn't immediately start up a pleased, drunken mantra of _Karkat, Karkat, Karkat,_ dares someone you know, or just fucking anyone to walk by.

After going through a personal journey of self-and-ass-discovery that included a questionable visit to the doctor's office, blatant misuse of musical equipment, overly indulgent internet purchases, and poorly executed library stalking, you are now kissing your sexy, amazing roommate in the open doorway of your dorm.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are officially in a sexual relationship with another male identifying member of the human species. And instead of feeling confused or guilty or embarrassed, you are so, _so_ incredibly overjoyed. Because you know now that Karkat is yours, just like you are his, and holy fucking shit if you don't want the whole world to know it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this was super fun! thank you for coming on this rainbow journey with me
> 
> send prompts and love on [tumblr](https://davekatprompts.tumblr.com/) or [pifo](https://www.pillowfort.io/suz)


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